Bella Donna
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: Someone is seeking revenge on the GD targets Emily. Second in the Emily Trilogy.
1. The City By The Bay

Sun pours down on the outdoor café as a slight wind blows across the patio. A hand presses the newspaper flat, holding it against the wind. It is the August first edition of the _International Herald-Tribune_. The news stories are idly scanned as a cappuccino is sipped. Nothing about him, that's good. He finds his way to the classifieds and sits very, very still as he looks down the agony column. The ad is the first one in the column. He does not make a sound, not even drawing a breath as he reads it.

__

A.A. Aaron

Opera and crab by the Bay.

If you would care to join me.

She who was named twice

Carefully removing his knife from his coat pocket he cuts the ad from the paper. He reads it one last time, deems it to be true, and returns the knife to his pocket. Emily Amelia, she who was named twice. His sweet, sweet Emily. He leaves a bill on the table and walks off in the London morning. 

__

Eight Months Later

San Francisco, California. Home to the Giants, the Forty-Niners, the Transamerica Pyramid, and the Golden Gate Bridge. The sunlight plays on the bay as the ferry cuts through it, its wake churning spray over the stern as children feed pretzels to the seagulls that follow. The children giggle and flinch as the noisy shore birds swoop in on them, they clamor against the rail under their mothers' watchful eyes. It is beautiful for a March day, warm and fortunately not raining. The ferry passes by Angel Island as it travels back towards the city. The deeply wooded island where the Asian immigrants were granted citizenship into America. Home of the free, land of the brave. Freedom, what America in her greatness has come to stand for. That same freedom which they seek to deny him. As the ferry continues across the Bay, another island comes into view. This one is more fitting to his plight. 

Alcatraz Island, home of the infamous federal prison. Once home to the likes of Al Capone and assorted others. Aptly nicknamed 'The Rock', for that is what it is. No trees grew on this barren island, only having been transplanted there from neighboring Angel Island. Now, to walk on it today, there is a profusion of fuchsias and eucalyptus trees on its grounds. The tower of the lighthouse stands sentinel over the former prison. It presents a striking image against the backdrop of the famed city and the Golden Gate bridge. Its name is derived from _los alcatraces_, the pelicans. He should ask his wife if she has ever seen a pelican there, for he refuses to step foot on the island. Touted as a tourist attraction, it will always be a prison, and he will not walk inside the doors of one willingly. 

He sits on his bench on the upper deck of the ferry, eyes shaded by a white fedora and a pair of stylish square framed sunglasses. If the accessories were not enough to obscure his features the minor cosmetic surgery should be. The latest trend of Botox treatments has given him a more youthful appearance, and his wife approves highly. She herself had them done, along with collagen injections to plump her lips. She also wears colored contacts now, deceiving the world as to the ocean water color of her eyes. Now they are a deep indigo that complements her honey colored hair. She was almost unrecognizable at the opera that evening as he was introduced to her. He finds himself missing the pale blonde strands that he would slide through his fingers. 

He is broken from his reverie, looks to see someone sliding onto the bench next to him. A woman, lithe and supple from what he can tell through her jacket. He smiles and nods pleasantly to her, maroon eyes behind the glasses sizing her up. It is nagging at him, somewhere deep in his memory, that he knows this woman. She nods in reply and takes a book from her satchel, opening it and beginning to read. He strolls the halls of his memory palace, looking for the information that will serve him. A name. Ah, there, in the pigeonholed manuscripts of the library in the Palazzo Capponi. He marvels at the discovery, he did not expect to see her again. He decides to wait until he is off the ferry before he confronts her. He still wonders idly how she would taste.

*****


	2. Strained Peas and Roast Beef

Tralala… Back from my slightly impromptu vacation. I've been home three hours and I already miss the Bay. Pitiful, no? The little excursion proved to be fruitful, providing me with wonderful locales for the tale. Thank you to all who have been reading my stuff, especially chameleon302, Kurt, troesnaja, Steel, and Nanci. Kurt, I am still truly flattered by being compared to Thomas Harris' writing style. I can only try. 

Okay, now for the normal disclaimers, since I seem to forget about them lately…. The dear Dr. Lecter and the dearly departed Agent Starling are not mine, I have only borrowed them for my own use for a short time. Emily Christophersen and her daughter Mischa are mine, although, they are up for rent. LOL Oh, and not wanting to give the story away (what fun would _that_ be?) there are a few other characters popping in that are also property of Thomas Harris. Okey dokey, here we go…. Again.

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She watches as the man she was sitting next to steps from the gangway and onto the pier. He walks towards the ferry building, his stride is unmistakable. She follows behind, trying to be discreet. All she needs is one good look at his face, to confirm that it is him. She steps through the doors and sees him going down the left hallway. She follows, her heels clicking on the tile and echoing back to her off the walls. She sees him turn the corner and she quickens her pace. Rounding the corner she finds herself in an empty corridor. She stifles a curse and stalks towards the door on the other end, helpfully marked with an exit sign. She bursts out into the late afternoon sun to find an empty sidewalk. He is gone, disappeared into the crowd not surprising, since he has made a habit of doing so.

*****

The man known as Dr. Antonio Rinaldi steps into the foyer of the Nob Hill home and hangs his coat and fedora in the closet. He carries with him into the kitchen a bottle of wine, and is greeted by a truly domestic scene. His wife, known as Dr. Amelia Rinaldi, is seated at the table, trying to feed something green and pureed to the baby girl sitting in the high chair before her. She didn't hear him come in but his daughter did, instantly brightening at the sight of her father. His wife turns a moment later smiling at him, taking the washcloth from her shoulder to wipe at some of the green puree that decorates her right cheek. The cheek is smooth now, plastic surgery having removed the scars that her mother had given her. He shows her the wine and receives an approving nod before he sets it on the counter and coming to stand behind her. He picks up one of the glass jars she has on the table, eyeing the label. He looks from the barely touched puree inside and to the smears that covered the tray of his daughter's high chair. He took a seat opposite his wife and opened the jar.

"Someone doesn't want to eat her dinner tonight?" he asks, sniffing the pale brown puree in the jar he holds.

A sigh before she answers. "No. We have tried everything on the menu for the evening. She only wants the strained peaches, but those are for dessert." She holds the tiny spoon out to him and he takes it. "Feel free to try, if you're up to the task." she grins as he takes a spoonful of the brown puree.

"I believe I am." His daughter is watching with skepticism as she sees him near her mouth with the spoon. She clamped her mouth shut and refused to budge. 

"Hmmm. Maybe if you try the airplane thing with her." his wife suggests, shrugging lightly. He does, with the same results. He taps the stuff on the spoon back into the jar and tries the next jar. Green puree, which the label identifies as strained peas. Still, his daughter refuses.

"Okay, little Mischa, you don't like the main course or your vegetables." he is once again tapping the spoon's contents into the jar. He looks at the jar that has orange puree, the strained peaches she does like. "Mother says no dessert until you eat your dinner, and your mother knows best." he smiles across at his wife who smiles pleasantly in return.

"Try the roast beef again." she suggests. He once again scoops a spoonful form the jar. This time he looks at it intently before trying to feed it to his reluctant daughter. Maybe… He makes sure she is watching as he begins to go "Mmmmm," and inserts the spoon into his own mouth. As the puree hits his tongue his face contorts into something like his daughter's face when he entered the kitchen. He quickly swallows the tiny mouthful and takes the water glass that is sitting at his wife's elbow. Mother and daughter are finding this rather amusing he notices. His wife has a hand covering her mouth, trying to hide her laughter. He looks at her, mock anger playing on his face.

"Dear Emily, do you find this amusing?"

Giggles as she lowers the hand. "Oh, if you could only see your face, Hannibal!" Emily pulls the washcloth from her shoulder and wipes a spot of the puree from his lower lip. "You look like you disdain it even more than Michelle." she is still laughing as she rises from the chair and goes to the sink.

"Indeed I do." he looks to his daughter as she claps her chubby little hands. "You are right not to eat this swill." he informs her in a stage whisper. He gathers up the jars and begins to replace the lids before he dropped the strained peas and the roast beef into the trash compactor. Emily turns and places her hands on her hips.

"What are you doing with those?" she asks, her tone is serious but he can see points of laughter in her eyes. She doesn't have the contacts in, considering she rarely wears them at home.

"Placing them with the other rubbish. May I ask what we are having for dinner tonight?"

She points a pale finger at the trash compactor he is closing. "You just threw it away." she watches as he closes the compactor fully and hits the compact button.

"Hmmm. It seems you will have to select something else."

She laughs and begins to collect Michelle from her high chair. "So I see. You choose, I'm going to get her bathed and changed." she pauses for a quick kiss from him as she steps from the high chair. she looks from his maroon to his daughter's matching ones. "Then its bedtime for little Mischa here."

He nods, and she heads to the stairs. Minutes later he hears the water in the master bath upstairs. Amazing. He never saw himself in this role, the thought of him as a doting father was rather amusing. He lingered on that thought as he opened the wine and began to pull out the necessities for the meal's preparation. Very amusing indeed.

*****


	3. One For The Money...

Darkness. It wraps around him like rich velvet, soft and comforting against the cool night air. His wife shifts next to him, rolling to face him and breathing softly. He can feel her breath against his face as he lays there, eyes open, staring into the dark. He didn't tell her that evening over dinner about the woman he encountered on the ferry. No need to worry her any more than necessary. Sleep slowly comes back to him, and he feels his wife curl against him as he slips back into his dreams.

*****

There is a slight drizzle hanging over the water, late into the night. The tall cranes of the ship building yards loom in the distance, lit brightly and reminiscent of tremendous dinosaur skeletons. Breath erupts from the woman's lips as her feet pound against the concrete of the sidewalk. Lit on the north side with a series of lampposts is the Berkley Pier, stretching far out into the Bay. She turns from the sidewalk and begins the trek out onto the pier. A buoy sounds in the water to her right, and the light from Alcatraz Island flashes in her vision every four seconds. She begins to count the seconds off under her breath as she jogs, cautious steps on the storm damaged surface. The numbers become her mantra as she passes the halfway point, waves glinting under the lamps' orange light. She passes one of the many enclosed benches that line either side of the pier. She doesn't see the shadow that slips out and falls into place behind her.

She reaches the end of the pier, pausing to look through the wooden slats out to the Golden Gate and the city beyond. Alcatraz is a tiny point of light, opposite the bay from the ship building dinosaurs. She checks her watch, smiles at the time and turns to head back towards the shore. A breeze comes up, driving the drizzle into her face. She feels the drops become fatter as the light precipitation tries to become a full fledged rain. She briefly wonders of tonight would have been better spent in the library, discussing biology with Chris. Chris brings a smile to her lips as the shadow reaches out and clamps a strong hand against the smile. She struggles, held by wiry strength as the ether soaked sponge presses against her face. Quickly, her struggles subdue and she is dropped to the pier in front of the shadow. Chris will be her final living thought as a knife glints in the rain.

*****

"Berkley police found the body of a young woman in her early twenties this morning on the Berkley Pier. She is believed to be a student at UC Berkley. The woman appears to have been murdered late last night, but authorities have yet to release details or a name, pending notice of the next of kin. Stay turned to News Four for the latest developments in this grisly attack."

Emily shook her head as she muted the sound on the television. She looked from the kitchen to where her husband sat feeding their daughter breakfast. Michelle seemed to be taking this meal better than the last one. She sipped her tea and watched the news from the corner of her eye. Murders were not all that unusual in this city, but something about this one was making her the slightest bit uneasy. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she felt wrong. Wrong. That narrowed it down a whole lot. Emily looked up to see her husband looking at her, head characteristically cocked to one side as he did so. His daughter sat with Cheerios stuck on her forehead, imitating the posture.

"Are you okay, my dear?" asks Dr. Rinaldi, tiny spoon of Cheerios in his half raised hand. He sees her nod and turns back to Mischa, feeding her the last bite of cereal. He carefully removes the pieces stuck to her forehead and drops them into the empty bowl. Something is bothering her, but he knows not to push for the answer to 'What?'. She is not a woman to be pushed. He lifts Mischa from her high chair and carries her and the cereal bowl into the kitchen. His wife smiles, as she takes the little girl from his arms. She ignores the slight pain as Mischa pulls at her hair, which is loose about her shoulders. He waits, rinsing the cereal bowl and placing it in the dishwasher. Sure enough, she speaks.

"There was a murder this morning, Hannibal." her mouth will forever sound strange around that name. Not as strange as it does with his assumed name, but still strange.

"Where?"

"In Berkley, down on the Pier. Some college student." she takes Michelle's hand from her lips as the little girl tries to stick little fingers in her mouth. 

Something is bothering her, strange for it to be a murder. "Sad. Did they release her name?"

"No."

"Its bothering you, Emily. Do you want to talk? I have an hour before I have to catch the ferry." 

He receives a nod and follows her into the living room, taking a seat in one of the Queen Anne chairs by the window. She joins him, looking across the small occasional table at him. Her hands are still in her lap, but her eyes are not. They roam the room, looking from the windows to the playpen where her daughter sits, to him finally. Silence barely has a chance to weight itself upon them when she suddenly breaks it.

"Something's wrong." she can't elaborate, still, and the psychiatrist sitting opposite her raises his eyebrows.

"Wrong, Emily?" 

Her head tilts back for a moment as she leans forward in her chair, then it drops forward as she leans back against the chair. "This murder. Its wrong, I can't explain how, but it just is." she pauses then hurries to justify herself. "Not in the sense of good and evil wrong, just something else."

He considers for a moment, looking into the indigo eyes set into her pale face. He promised her that he would ask the question again, and now it seems is the time. "Emily, if I may," her face lifts slightly as she acknowledges him and gives him silent permission to ask. "Do you regret what you did? Back in Vermont?"

A violent shake of her head before she replies. "No. Never. If you think I'm feeling remorse for my own choice to commit murder, it's not that." he nods, and she continues. "I don't regret killing Vergne, it was just something that had to be done. That is what's bothering me, I think. I murdered with a purpose, that night it was one of survival. You have killed for the purpose of bettering the world, to a degree. Not everyone sees it that way. I think this murder wasn't committed for any such purpose."

"Killing for the sake of killing. Those are the truly dangerous ones, you and I know that." he can see the reflection in her eyes, the sunlight makes them appear depthless. He is as much drawn in by them as she is by his. She has dignified him with an answer as Clarice never had. He feels a twinge of sadness in his heart as he remembers Clarice. She never did tell him if the lambs had stopped screaming, and he suspected they never had. Sweet, sweet Emily was so different from his little Starling. But, then again, they had both completed him in very different ways. Now as he watches her scoop their daughter into the air, smiling at her and holding her high, eliciting a burst of giggles from the child, he lets the twinge go. Sadness cannot be dwelled on in this world, it is a danger to do so. His daughter babbles at him, smiling and waving a star shaped hand in the air. It occurs to him, as he watches mother and daughter, that Emily may be right. 

*****

She sits on the edge of the bed, looking out across the bay from the hotel room window. She was surprised at the feeling that had rushed through her last night. Surprising, it wasn't as horrible as she had expected. In fact, she had actually enjoyed the woman's struggles in her arms, the feel of the blood on her fingers. Exhilarating. That was an apt description. A smile crossed her lips as she thought about the act. It was overwhelming, but, thankfully, this wouldn't be her last victim.

*****


	4. Two For The Show...

Tralala… First off, a thank you to the wonderful people at Armida for making such wonderful wines, and having such a wonderful mascot, Wino. I was quite happy to share my Pringles with him while I was visiting. Next, I add a disclaimer for the cameo appearances of a couple of my other characters from other tales. They are property of me, and like Emily and Mischa, wonderfully up for rent. I hope you do enjoy the tale, for I enjoy writing. Ta-ta, have fun dear ones.

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Warm spring sun casts its rays over the park where the children are playing. Screams and peals of laughter float across the green jeweled lawns as mothers and fathers sit on benches, passing the time together, talking about the weather and how wonderful their respective child is doing. A beautiful blond haired baby is being pushed in a swing on the far side of the playground, away from the most rambunctious of the commotion. The dark sunglasses on the mother's face obscure her eyes, and the thick hair is pulled back in a ponytail that hangs from below a Giants ball cap. She is smiling at the baby girl, who giggles as the wind rushes in her face. Softly, if she listens hard enough, she can hear the mother's voice as she pushes the baby's swing.

"One for the money," a light push on the swing. "Two for the show," a little harder push now. "Three to get ready," the baby is squealing with delight as she s caught once again for another push, one that sends her higher than the others. "And four to go!" Carefully, the swing is slowed and she is lifted from its cradle by the mother, who spins her around and plants a kiss on her forehead. She walks to the stroller parked at the edge of the sand and arranges the straps out of the way before placing the little girl in the seat. She dutifully buckles the straps and puts a small hat on the baby's head, which is promptly removed and the bill is inserted into its mouth. The children from the other side of the playground run by, playing tag and obscuring whatever the mother has just said. Mother and daughter leave the park, making their way across the green lawn. She stands from her bench and follows. If she can't keep track of _him_, maybe she'll have better luck with _her_. Besides, the mother is the one she ultimately wants.

*****

She pulls the garage door opener from the satchel draped over the back of the stroller. She smiles as she watches the door lift and expose the garage to the sunshine. To the right is her car, a sleek, black Lincoln Town Car, a Cartier L edition no less. With the pleasant weather and with Mischa behaving so well, it just begs for a drive. Yes, that's what will help to relieve her anxieties, a pleasant drive putting the car through its paces. She pushes the stroller into the garage and leaves the door open as she takes Mischa inside. A few minutes later, she is returning with a freshly changed daughter and a diaper bag draped over her opposite arm. She situates little Mischa in her car seat and drops the diaper bag to the car floor. She glances out the garage, looking at the blue skies and debating where to go. She doesn't pay any mind to the woman walking the little Italian greyhound across the street.

Traffic is relatively light as Emily takes the car north and out of the city. The view from the Golden Gate is wonderful as she crosses it. As they cross into Marin county she slips a CD into the player, smiling as Aaron Copland comes over the speakers. She grins at Mischa in the rearview mirror, the little girl's light blonde hair being whipped by the wind. They speed north on 101, heading for the wine country. No matter what, Emily has to have a reason to go out and have her fun, and today's reason is to pick up some wine. She heads north to Healdsburg, listening to 'Fanfare for the Common Man'. The speed is the proper medication and her worries over the murder swiftly bleed away.

Mischa toddles next to Emily as they stand in the tasting room at Armida. She is doing better at walking, but knows enough not to leave her mother's side when they are not at home. The winery's official mascot, Wino, who is a large friendly dog, is sniffing at Mischa's head. Emily indulges herself and tries one of the Chardonnays while she chats with the server. After saying her goodbyes, she leaves with a bottle of the 2000 Gewurtztraminer. The vines have yet to turn green, but the scene from the little deck by her car is gorgeous nonetheless. A small pond with a fountain burbles in the foreground as the Russian River valley lays green and spread before them. She is in high spirits as they return to the Lincoln, and to her ringing cell phone.

*****

Evening, six o clock, the sun is staying up later, and it is pleasant to come home during the daylight. As Dr. Antonio Rinaldi turns his Jaguar onto the street he sees an old blue 1964 Ford Fairlane parked in his driveway. It is a well restored automobile and sports fender tags denoting that it has a 289 Hi-Po engine under its hood. The license plate on it read "BLUCLUE", he notes as he taps the button to open the garage. The rumble from the Jaguar fills the garage as he pulls in. He cuts the engine and steps out, the smell of exhaust and spring air heavy in the garage. His wife's Lincoln is still cooling as he passes to the door leading into the house. As he closes the garage door behind him and steps into the laundry room, he wonders what she has been up to today.

The light smell of honeysuckle greets him as he comes into the hallway. He removes his coat and hangs it in the closet before heading for the kitchen. Before he gets there, the scent of honeysuckle grows stronger and he can hear another female voice coming from the kitchen. He steps in and finds his wife seated alongside a petite red haired woman, both sipping tea from china cups. The red head turns and smiles as his wife rises form her chair.

"Ummmm. You're home, I must have lost track of time. Anyway, Lissie, this is my husband, Dr. Antonio Rinaldi." He watches as the visitor rises and extends a slim hand to him. He takes note of the sidearm she wears snugged against her ribs and the badge that is dangling on a cord around her neck. His wife is continuing with introductions, hand laid on his arm. "Antoni, this Lissie Shaw."

"Hello." he takes the hand and feels the strength in her grip. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"As it is you." her voice is that of a soprano. She smiles and releases his hand, turning slightly towards his wife. "Amelia, you'll look over the stuff I gave you and let me know?"

Emily Amelia nods and smiles. "Of course. Do you still want to have playgroup on Friday?"

Lissie is grabbing her purse from beside the chair and withdrawing a card from the outside pocket. "Of course. Just ring me if anything changes." she hands the card to Emily Amelia and nods to him. "Dr. Rinaldi." she steps out of the kitchen and makes her way to the front door. Nothing is said until the sound of the Fairlane's engine is heard. Emily steps away and slumps into the chair she was previously occupying. She trailed her fingers across the slim manila file folder that lay before her, taking the card and tapping against the file then lifting it and tapping it against her teeth. Dr. Rinaldi smiles at that, then reaches for the card. 

"You have picked up some rather odd habits, dear." he comments, looking at the police seal emblazoned on the card. 

"Only from you." she replies, flipping the folder open.

"Elizabeth Shaw, Inspector. Special Investigations Unit, SFPD." he read from the card. 

An absent nod as his wife looks through the folder. "She wants my help if they get another murder." she is scanning the police report. 

"The Berkley Murder? Will you help her, Emily?"

"Hmmmm. Prolly. She was asked in on it because they thought it was a serial killer that she had been working on for the past few years. It wasn't." she slid a sheaf of photographs from the folder and passed them to him. "Look, tell me what you think."

He does as she instructs, maroon eyes glowing as he studies the pictures. The woman lays face down on the pier, and the resulting carnage is very, very familiar. Emily looks up at his soft intake of breath, watching him. 

"Bloody Eagle." she informs him, slim manicured finger tapping the photo. The woman's lungs have been pulled from her back and spread like wings. He knows this, he has done this. That man from the hunting show. The obnoxious one. Donnie Barber, yes that was him. He had removed his sweetbreads and those of the deer. Strange. As he looks more closely at the photo he can see the same incisions on the woman's back. His eyes flick up to meet Emily's, and the answer is on her tongue before he asks the question.

"She was butchered. The sweetbreads and the liver were removed." he could see the distaste in her eyes for the next thing she said. "You haven't been doing things, again, have you?"

"No. I would not kill without a purpose, Emily."

She points a finger at the photos, slim and decisive. "Then they have a copycat on their hands. Unless, there is another cannibal running around the Bay Area who likes the way you do things." 

A grim smile touches his lips. "We cannibals are a rare breed." he slides the photos to her, watches as she places them back inside the folder and closes it, hand resting on top. He reaches out and gently strokes her middle finger with his index finger. "I am going to advise you to help the police, Emily." she meets his eyes and sees a protective glint in them. "But I am going to caution you to be very, very careful with this one."

*****


	5. Three To Get Ready...

The rains have passed from the Bay Area, and the nights are cool and clear. The lights from the city wash out the stars, obscuring all but the brightest to the naked eye. There is still a police cruiser patrolling down near the Berkley Pier, and no runners dare set foot on it at night. Even the transients are absent from the park and its numerous benches. The restaurant nearby has suffered a slight drop in business, yet also has seen the number of curious people increase. The human fascination with pain and suffering. No matter what, they will slow to a crawl on the freeway to view the carnage left from an automobile accident. The thrills for the weak of heart and stomach, what passes for them as the life threatening thrills do for the more daring. The cruiser slows momentarily and the officers inside peer out into the darkness. Nearby a buoy sounds, its mournful cry the only sound above the waves.

Allowing for the fact that the Berkley Pier was no longer convenient for her, she walks through the brightly lit shops of the Embarcadero. The water is flowing in the fountain in John Herman Plaza, and she stares at the strange structure, all hard angles and straight lines, water splashing gracefully from it. A young woman sits at the edge, talking on a cell phone. She breathes deeply and walks out into the plaza, hand gripped on the knife in her pocket. Number three, you see. Two will not be found for a little while seeing as she will not be missed. She was a transient, and was now tucked in an ice chest sitting on a ship docked in Sausalito. Her body should show up at the fish market in a day, though. That should cause quite a stir. Movement from the edge of her vision. The woman on the cell phone is standing, walking away. She slips from the shadows and falls in step behind her. Number three, how many more will it take to get his attention?

*****

Dr. Amelia Rinaldi kisses her daughter goodbye as she leaves her in the care of the daycare center Mrs. Fouts runs from her home. She is working today, something she only does part time now. She hurries to the car and slides into the passenger seat, glancing at her husband as she closes the door. The leather is buttery soft against the nylons she is wearing and she brushes a loose strand of hair back from her eyes. They operate a small practice across the bay in Larkspur, which is why he always takes the ferry. Today though, Dr. Antonio Rinaldi will drive north, his wife beside him. She has been asked to help with a psychiatric evaluation of a prisoner in San Quentin. She had accepted the offer gracefully when he had denied it, unwilling to walk into such a place. When they reached Larkspur, he would leave the car with her as he went into the office. It was an amicable arrangement. 

*****

Emily was sitting at a makeshift desk in the dispensary when she heard her name being called. Looking across the room, she saw one of the nurses beckoning her over to the phone. Sighing, she closed her notes and rose form her chair. She nodded her thanks to the plump nurse and took the receiver. Her eyes close briefly and a silent obscenity escapes her lips. Another victim, this one found in the fountain in John Herman Plaza by a tourist this morning. She opened her eyes and thanked her caller for the information, promising to come by when she returned to the city that evening. The receiver is replaced with a heavy _thunk_ and she slowly turns to look out the barred windows. Nothing but the light seeping in can be seen through them, but still she tries. Before she can return to her makeshift desk, she hears another voice call her. The staff psychiatrist is smiling at her, a lithe and shapely woman standing next to him. Dr. Amelia Rinaldi composes a smile on her face and steps to greet the visitor.

"Amelia, may I introduce Dr. Alexandra Fell to you. She is a visiting medical doctor, from Italy." she sees him glance slightly to the woman, hoping he has his information correct. Obviously, he has been elected tour guide for an unannounced visitor. Emily Amelia extended a hand to the woman. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I am Dr. Amelia Rinaldi."

The smile and voice are cultured, and her accent comes through cleanly. "The pleasure is all mine, _Dottore_. Am I correct to presume that your husband is the famed Antonio Rinaldi?"

"Yes. May I ask, what part of Italy are you from?"

"Florence." 

Emily Amelia smiled, the accent had betrayed her early on, but she did not lie to disguise her roots. Across the room, she hears her phone buzzing against the table, working its way across her notes form its vibrations. A swift smile and a slight bob of the head, looking appropriately embarrassed. "If you'll excuse me, _Dottore_." the woman's eyes show slight surprise at the use of her native Italian. Emily Amelia turns away from them and heads to her desk, plucking the phone and flipping it open. At least this phone call is good news. 

*****

The presence of one more murderer within the walls of the old prison passes unnoticed. The walls are stained with blood and souls, so the addition of another is not of consequence. She stands in the late afternoon sun, watching as a sleek Jaguar pulls out the front gates, past the guard towers and roars up the road. She follows its passage down the road until it is hidden from her sight. Walking with a cultured step, she unlocks her own car and gets inside. The Mercury starts with a nice roar and achieves a steady thrumming of power as it idles. Placing it in gear and releasing the brake, she pulls from the visitors parking lot, taking the same road to the gates and passing beneath the guard towers. She will die before she is ever locked away in a place like this. Neither here nor in Italy, she will not become caged.

*****

The lights are low in the office of Dr. Antonio Rinaldi as his wife steps in through the door. She smiles at the soft music coming over the speakers on the shelf behind his desk. He sits in his leather chair, lids half closed as his left hand traces the tempo in the air before him. She watches him in the rare moment of solitude, knowing that he is very far from the present. She wishes not to disturb him, but he summoned her here, thankfully freeing her from the dreadful prison. As she sits on the couch beneath the windows, she wonders how he endured so many years of being caged. Caged, in a dungeon, as if he were nothing more than a beast. So she didn't see him through the eyes of the common perception, that was the problem of being just alike. You understood what the others feared because you were what they feared too. The music stops and she looks up, meeting that terribly red gaze, the one that can see straight to your soul. Neither doctor rises, and they let the moment grow heavy. 

"Tell me of your day, sweet Emily." His office is the only place outside of their home where he will use her name, and she his. One must keep up their public image of being someone who they are not. She indulges him, telling him the details, trivial and otherwise, of the profile. Agreeing that the inmate would be safer, for his sake and that of others, in a mental institution. She falters briefly as she comes to the introductions with Dr. Fell. His eyes light, she notices, at the name. Not strange, considering that he himself was once known as Dr. Fell. The coincidences trickle through Emily's mind as she speaks. Fell. Florence. A doctor, nonetheless. If the good doctor seated behind his desk sees the same he does not show it. She finishes her description and falls silent, the echoes of the _Goldberg Variations_ playing in her memory palace. He rises from his chair, straightening his suit jacket and steps forward, extending a hand to her. Rising, she takes the outstretched hand, blushing as he bows his head and raises it to his lips. The slightest brush against them as the pointed tongue slips in and out moments before his lips meet her hand. The touch leaves the essence of sandalwood and lavender on them as he straightens.

"As I cautioned before, with the case you are undertaking to aid the police, I will caution again with Dr. Alexandra Fell. Be very, very careful with this one."

*****


	6. And Four To Go...

You see what power is- holding someone else's fear in your hand and showing it to them.

-Amy Tan

*****

Three murders, three young women butchered, the sweetbreads and liver removed from all. Lungs pulled out through the back in the Norse sacrificial custom of Bloody Eagle. The one person who has committed a murder like this before is completely innocent. It was all too much as Emily lay her head on the pillow, feeling the cool fabric against her cheek. Above all, she was the one the police from three different cities were counting on to give an accurate picture of the person committing these crimes. They wanted reason where there wasn't one, they wanted answers where there weren't any. Rolling over, she looks at the sleeping form of her husband, black against the pale moonlight. More aggravating is the woman, Dr. Alexandra Fell, who has taken a profound interest in her husband. Emily reminded herself that she was not being overly protective of her family, but that the woman in all actuality was getting a little close for comfort. Anger and confusion swirled about her as she retreated deep into her palace, seeking solace in the quiet halls. She found it momentarily.

*****

Screams. Everywhere in her ears. Loud and harsh, drowning out the own screams falling from her lips. Her eyes roam the room she is trapped in, no walls or ceiling, but thick metal bars. Cold black iron, trapping her effectively in the terrifying sounds. She reaches out to the door, finding it locked fast, preventing her escape. A beautiful parquet floor is beneath her feet, and she falls to it, grasping the bars of the cage. She feels something wet and slick under her fingers, under her legs. She pulls her hand form the iron bars, seeing blood, dark and rich, dripping from her fingertips. Blood everywhere around her, the metallic tang filling the air already heavy with the screams. Hair falls into her face and she brushes it back with a bloody hand, smearing it across the welts on her cheek. Welts from her mother. The deep scratches left from her last visit. She throws her head back, wincing from the pain. A voice cuts through the screams. She knows the voice, and turns in its direction. Clarice Starling stands outside the bars, looking much younger than when Emily last saw her. She is leading a horse and carrying a lamb in her arms. She is trying to save the lamb, but it is already too late. Blood mars the white fleece, bringing tears to young Clarice's eyes.

"I couldn't save the lambs, Emmie. I couldn't save them." she looks around the room, taking in the flows of blood that are tracing across the parquet. "Tell him I'm sorry, Emmie. Tell him that I couldn't save the lambs to make them stop screaming." The dead lamb falls from Clarice Starling's arms into a deep pit that has opened in the blood before her. Emily scrambles to her feet, trying to gain traction on the slick surface. Hand outstretched she opens her mouth to call to the girl, but finds she has no voice. Clarice disappears, as if she were never there in the first place. With that, the screams stop. She hears a tape player turn on and the volume being turned up. Glenn Gould, the _Goldberg Variations_. She is in a corner of the cage, watching now as Dr. Hannibal Lecter savagely attacks a police officer, biting into his face and shaking it like an enraged terrier. He takes the baton from the man, driving it into him and dropping him to his knees before he turns to the second officer, the one handcuffed in the cage. He notices Emily cowering in her corner for the first time. He extends the baton to her and she knows what he wants her to do. She cannot move though, as she watches his face change into that of a dark shadow. The shadow that she is dogging through the night. The transformed Dr. Lecter turns away and delivers five judicious blows to the officer cowering below him before turning and delivering another to the first officer. A cruel smile is the only visible thing in the shadows face as it turns back to her, baton raised high in the air. 

"Your turn, Emily." it says in the voice of Dr. Alexandra Fell. Emily finally emits a scream as the baton crashes down against her skull.

"Nooooo!"

*****

Sheets are twisted around her as she bolts upright, screaming and face twisted in pain. Hannibal Lecter is instantly awake and reaching out to his wife. Her skin is soaked with sweat, and her nightgown clings to her, revealing her form. His hands encircle her arms pulling her to him as gently as he can. Her eyes fly open and she locks onto his, seeking him. The scream dies from her lips and she sags against him. Sweat and tears pour from her face as she clings to him, completely unaware that it is the same body that just attacked her in her dream, if not the same man. Half choked sobs disturb the night air, and Hannibal hugs the shaking body to him, whispering soothingly in her ears. Mischa's cries echo thinly into the room where her parents cling to each other, she will have to wait. 

*****

Blood has a very unique look in the moonlight. It is rich and black, unlike the red under normal light, but still retains that distinctive sheen. She looks at it on her hands, holding them in the moonlight as if she were examining a delicate ring on her finger. Victim number four lays at her feet, blood pooling on the concrete of the pier. There were no patrols tonight, so she was able to return to the Berkley Pier. A final and dramatic statement to _him_. She bends and hefts the body to its limp feet. It is difficult to hold a dead person and tie them up at the same time, but she accomplishes it with a slight degree of difficulty. The body of the young woman now hangs on the slats at the end of the pier. Her body hangs there, blood still leaking from her ravaged body. She is proud of this one, and her shadowed face smiles as she turns to walk down the pier. The Harpy blade she carries is slipped into her pocket as she walks. If she could, she would whistle, but for now, the silence is enough. A laugh escapes her lips as she once again looks at the blood in the moonlight. She pauses at a fish cleaning sink and turns the water on, rinsing the blood from her hands. She can hear it as the water runs down the drain to the bay a few feet below her. She clasps her hands behind her back, walking the rest of the way back to the shore. She is in high spirits as she reaches the car. The rented Mercury turns over quickly as she looks out across the bay. Her lips crack into a grin as she backs it out of the space, cultured voice clear over the engine.

"Your turn, Emily."

*****


	7. An Invitation You Can't Refuse

Twiddler of minds. I am deeply honored, dear chameleon. LOL Shout-outs to a few people, whom I'm too lazy to e-mail and tell them how much I love their work. Okey dokey, here we go. Shout-outs to: Luna, with her wonderful cliffies; Christopher Morgan, with his wonderful depiction of the GD; Green Jewel, your writing is truly marvelous; fireandice, you are wonderful so you'd better hurry and rid yourself of your writer's block. Does anyone have a clue as to who Dr. Alexandra Fell is yet? Quid pro quo, you tell me and I'll tell you, yes or no. Tralala, dear ones, and here we go. I believe that is all because Mree is telling me to get in with the story.

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Emily lowers her sunglasses as she walks to the end of the pier. It is the first time she will see one on the bodies in person. She is only here because she was talking with the Berkley investigators when the body was found. The sunlight illuminates the body, causing it to stand out against the blackened wood slats. Even before she is directly in front of it, Emily knows what she will find. She has her little voice recorder in her hand, speaking into it as she looks at the very dead woman. Her breath catches as she hits on the placing of the wounds. 

"Wound man." she tells the officers who have walked out with her. 

"What's that?" one of them asks, looking from the body to Emily.

She shakes her head, "It was an illustration used in Medieval texts illustrating many types of battle injuries all on one body. Your killer is either a historian or in the medical profession." she steps closer, peering at the body. "Can you take her down?"

A nod from the officer, "Yeah. Pictures and the crime scene boys are done with her already." he waves at another young officer to cut the ropes that are holding the woman up. The arms are outstretched, a little more than a right angle form the weight of the limp body. Her feet are bound with another length of rope. Like a crucifixion, she muses. The woman is lowered and lain on the pier. Emily leans forward, hovering over the body. No, this one wasn't butchered for meat. She can feel it in the officer's reaction, they see it to. Doubts begin to form in their brains, and one voices his concern.

"Is it the same guy, Doctor?"

She is hunkering down, getting a closer look at the victim as she answers. "Yes." something bugs her though, the height of the hanging body wasn't right for a male killer, unless he was on the short side. A female serial killer, very rare, even more so than cannibals, and this killer was both from the evidence presented so far. A prickle of fear starts to form in her brain. No one knows about her family's past, right? She covered her tracks well, even her husband had a hard time finding her. He had more experience with disappearing into the world with a new identity, so his tracks were probably even harder to find. But someone had. Someone wanted his attention, and was bound to get it. She struggled to her feet and began to walk down the pier, ignoring the startled glances from the Berkley police. 

"Hey! Dr. Rinaldi! Where are you going?" she hears a voice call behind her, the same one who voiced his doubts.

"I'll call you, I need to go somewhere. I'll have your profile tomorrow morning." she responds, not bothering to turn around. Her keys have found their way into her palm and she makes her way to the Lincoln. Her cell phone lays on the seat and she can see the LCD screen lit green as it rings. She flings the passenger door open and grabs it, flipping it open and answering breathlessly.

"Hello?"

A crackle of static before the voice comes to her. A light female voice drifts over the connection. "Hello, Amelia. Or should I address you as Emily Christophersen." a laugh, humorless and dry. "Did you like this morning's victim?"

Emily's mind is racing and she glances back to the police milling about the pier. She should run to them, tell them she has the killer on the line. Her thoughts are squelched instantly, as if the caller was a mind reader.

"No, don't run to the cops, Emily. That would make it all that much worse."

Her eyes flick around the parking lot, through the trees surrounding the park. "Where are you?"

A sigh from the caller, "Tut, tut, _Dotorre_. That would not be fair. Are you going to answer my question or are you going to be _rude_?" she draws the last word out and Emily slams the car door. A few stray glances in her direction from the cops, but nothing more. She walks around the front of the car, reaches for the door handle. There is silence from the other end as she starts the car. She doesn't speak until she has pulled out from the parking lot. 

"Fine. I'll answer your question. I did not like finding this morning's victim. Why wound man?"

A sigh, as if the answer was obvious. "Because I knew _he_ would recognize it." If she strains, Emily can hear the sound of an engine over the phone. The phone is carefully placed into the adapter, connecting it to the hands free mike that is mounted at the edge of the windshield. She slips her sunglasses on and discreetly glances around the passing cars. No way to tell at the moment if someone was following her. She pulls onto 680 and heads towards the Bay Bridge. Ask the next question, she urges herself as she merges into traffic.

"What do you want with my husband?"

That dry laughter again, cut by the static. "I want him to know pain. Do you know pain, Emily?" 

The dream from last night flashes momentarily in her thoughts, and bile rises in her throat. "Yes." There, the blue Mercury three cars back, in the left lane. A woman on a cell phone, smiling. She puts on her blinker and eases over the two lanes. Now, three cars ahead of her in the same lane she can see her tormentor. The caller sees her move and floors the Mercury. The three cars between them shift into the other lanes, and soon the Mercury is nosing up on the Lincoln's rear end.

"Well done, Emily. You found me. But remember, you're next." Emily sees the hand leave the wheel and wave to her before the Mercury swerves into the middle lane, passing her with a burst of speed. Emily now recognizes the woman, puts the voice with her. Fell. The fucking killer is Dr. Alexandra Fell. She draws a sharp breath and slams the heel of her hand against the wheel, hearing the last words before the connection is broken.

. "Bye bye, Emily. I'll be seeing you soon for dinner."

*****


	8. Secrets To Keep

Ummmm. Fun, isn't it? At least I think so. I do hope you continue to enjoy the tale, dear ones.

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The house is dark and empty when she returns to it. Mischa is asleep in her arms and she pauses to drop the diaper bag next to the hall closet. Her husband is meeting with the directors board for the opera tonight, he had left a message on her cell's voice mail saying not to expect him home til late. She carries the sleeping baby upstairs and goes through the motions of preparing her for bed. Mischa stirs slightly, causing Emily to freeze and watch as her daughter settles back into sleep. The door is left cracked and the baby monitor turned on and set on the dresser. A soft light is emitted from the far corner where a butterfly nightlight burns. Slowly, Emily makes her way back downstairs. She dropped the profile off to Lissie just before five, and asked not to be contacted about the case again. She didn't tell them that she had been slated already as the next victim. She moves in the darkness, for the first time it seems she is fearing the light. The soft clink of crystal is sharp and clear in the silence as she takes a wine glass from the glass faced cabinet. Pausing briefly, she removes another, Hannibal might like some when he returned home. The bottle of Gewurztraminer is uncorked and she pours the pale liquid into her glass. She looks into the glass and sees her father, large hands carefully lifting a bottle from the racks in his small cellar. She takes the wine to the living room, settling into the couch and grabbing the remote for the fireplace. The glow of the fire is the only light in the room as she closes her eyes.

*****

He returns late, as he expected, and enters the house to find it unbearably warm. Silence, except for the quiet hiss of the flames in the gas fireplace. The fireplace had become Emily's solace when she was troubled, letting herself be overwhelmed by its warmth until her troubles and cares melted away like the last winter snows. He found her there, curled on the couch, eyes half closed as she held a glass in right hand. Her left is laid across her belly, fingers slightly curled. He walks to her and takes the glass from her hand, eyes meeting her and watching them. It has been a long time since he has stopped to admire his reflection in them. He does so now, lifting the wine to his lips, sipping the now warm golden liquid. Spice and roses, like his wife. She lifts the remote from the coffee table and shuts the fireplace off, plunging the room into darkness. She sits up and slides a little down the couch.

"Sit with me." and he does, easing his back into the warm corner previously occupied by her body. He carefully brings his legs up onto the couch, stretching them beside her. She leans back against him, head cradled against his shoulder. It has been much too long since they have relaxed in this manner. She takes the wine glass from him and sips from it, sighing as she does so. His left hand comes across her belly as he reaches to take her hand in his. She feels his surprise as he feels the knife. The closed blade is warm from being held against her, and he takes it from her, flicking it open with practiced ease. A Harpy. 

"Emily…" he begins, but is caught without words. His wife never mentioned that she kept a knife in their home, and he knows that it is not his. He closes it and returns it to her lap, feeling the slim fingers take it back. "Why?"

Her head shifts against him. "Dr. Alexandra Fell. She's the one committing the murders." a sigh, heavy as she looks for the words she wants. "I've told the police. Gave them what they wanted."

Something else. He remembers the look on her face the morning after the first murder. He remembers her screaming last night, the details in her dream. There is something else she wants to say, but feels she cannot. Best to ask for it directly. Her reply is just as evasive, though. She considers the subject closed as she denies that there is something more bothering her. They lay like this for hours, unmoving as the heat slowly fades from the room. It is still warm as they head to the bedroom, Dr. Lecter pausing to look in on little Mischa as Emily continues on. She is curled under the sheets as he enters the room, her breathing that of a sleeping child. He changes quietly and joins her in the bed. She does not stir as he lays beside her. He is beginning to fear for his wife, wondering what she feels she has to hide form him.

*****

The cold damp of the basement clings to her skin, like an unwelcome fog. Shadows are chased from the corners by bright overhead lights. There is a sink in the near right corner, by the door and from this perspective one can see the room is set up resembling an operating theater, but with a few unusual additions. Sitting in the middle of the room is a stainless steel table, one similar to those found in morgues. A rolling tray stands next to it, surgical instruments glittering and clinking faintly as it is rolled to the wall. Along side the bed are the necessary life support machines and respirators. A heart monitor sits darkened on the table supporting the varying apparatuses. As for the unusual, a small square table is pushed into the far right corner, along with a single chair. The table is appointed with a fine china dinner service, complemented by crystal glasses and a single silver candlestick. Opposite the table, in the far left corner, is a hand truck, similar to that used to move large and heavy furniture and appliances. Next to that is a coat tree, with a stark white straightjacket hanging from the pegs. That is not the most disturbing feature, as the eyes are led to the item above the straightjacket. Slim metal bars reflect the bright light from the hole they cover. An opening for a mouth, protected so that the teeth behind the bars cannot bite the unwary. The half mask is tan in color, and she had paid a high price to purchase it from the estate of the late Mason Verger. 

She takes a seat at the table, adjusting the steak knife so that it is perpendicular to the edge of the table. Her hand then smoothes a wrinkle from the linen tablecloth. Her eyes tear slightly as she looks up and across to the wall the opposite side of the table is pushed against. A photo stares back at her, face grim but eyes that once held a bit of laughter. No more. Her husband had been taken form her, and now she would exact her revenge on her husband's killer. A smile twists her lips as she looks away from the photograph and to the surgical table. Yes, her revenge will be extracted, by taking away the one _he_ loves before his eyes. _Bon apptito, Dottore_.

*****


	9. The Kidnapping Of Amelia Rinaldi, MD

The headline is large and loud, printed in black, seventy-two point Railroad Gothic. Almost against her will, it grabs Emily's eye as she passes through the checkout line with Michelle in the seat of the grocery cart. Her hand reaches out of her own accord as she picks the paper up. The _National Tattler_ had run with the story before the police had announced their suspect on the news this morning. Useless and incorrect information now, but the name would still cause the tabloid to be eagerly grabbed from the shelves. "**Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter Terrorizes San Francisco!**" She drops the tabloid onto her groceries and waits as the bill is rung up. Leaving the store, she is tempted to toss the _Tattler_ into a garbage can, but decides against it. Daughter and groceries are loaded into the Lincoln and she slides into the front seat, reading the headline once again, looking at the picture of her husband that was below it. An old, old picture. Older than the one on the FBI's website. She flips to the center section, looking for the story. There, under the byline of Jane Morricone. 

She remembers the woman's voice, the laughter when Emily thought she was a solicitor. She scanned the story, reading the twisted facts, and sighs as she nears the bottom. Ms. Morricone has included a little paragraph about her, accompanied by a most unflattering picture taken from some social function she had attended so long ago. Grown accustomed to her new face, Emily didn't readily recognize her old features. Ms. Morricone had prattled on in her story about how Lecter had kidnapped the innocent Dr. Emily Christophersen and had probably eaten her. Kidnapped. That earned a snort of derision from her as she tossed the paper aside into the passenger seat and started the Lincoln. She doesn't note the panel van that follows a discreet distance behind her.

*****

"Kidnapped indeed." she snaps on the phone to her husband, who is driving back into the city. "Although, it is amusing that she thinks you ate me." she chuckles, a little levity in her slight depression.

Static crackles as the Jaguar passes through the tunnel just before the Marin side of the Golden Gate. "Hmmmm. There's a thought. On the subject of eating, I would like to try tempting you with a splendid evening out."

A laugh, her mood is certainly improving. "Tempt away. I'll call Lissie and see if she can watch Mischa. If not, I'll drop her off with Mrs. Fouts." 

His smile is evident as he replies. "It is a date then. Dinner and dancing, and then maybe something more when we return home."

"We're certainly in a good mood." she quips, eyes sparkling at what he has in mind. "I'll be ready when you get home. Bye, Antoni."

"Ta ta, Amelia." he clicks the end button on the phone as he reaches the bridge. Assumed names on the telephones, one never knows who might be listening. The evening out would be perfect for cheering his sweet wife up, and even more so the rest of the night spent in. 

*****

Lissie was more than happy to take Mischa for the evening, smiling as she carried the smiling baby to the car. Emily waited on the front porch until the Fairlane was out of sight, then she stepped back into the foyer, locking the door behind her. Upstairs next, sliding a beautiful black silk gown from the zippered dress bag. Rhinestones glittered along the neckline of the bodice and the two thin shoulder straps. She slipped out of her day clothes and relished the feel of the pure silk against her skin. She rummaged in the jewelry box, pulling a pair of diamond earrings Hannibal had given her as an engagement present from the top drawer. Next, the necklace. A garnet, surrounded with diamonds, hanging from a gold chain. She adored the necklace, having found it while making her way cross-country. In the light, it was the same color as his eyes. She worked the clasp as she draped it around her neck. She pulled a pair of Prada heels from the closet along with a black cashmere wrap, to complete her evening's ensemble. There. All that was left was her hair, which could easily be handled with a French twist. She had just begun to run the brush through it when the doorbell rang. _Go away_ she mentally urged the visitor. It didn't work, the doorbell rang again. She slipped into the shoes and gritted her teeth, heading down the stairs. It rang again as she stepped into the foyer.

"Coming." she called, not bothering to hide her irritability. A peek through the stained glass window on the right revealed a woman in coveralls standing on the porch.. Emily undid the deadbolt and pulled the door open, feigning a smile as she did so.

"Can I help you?" the smile disappears as the woman's head comes up, face shadowed by the billed cap. Time slows as recognition lights in Emily's eyes. "God no…" she begins to push the door shut but the woman has already pushed her way onto the threshold.

"Good evening, Emily." a wicked smile as she catches Emily's arm. "I told you, you're next." A glint as she slips a hypodermic into her captive's arm with practiced ease. Emily tries to twist away, but the drug is fast working and she begins to slump before she can pull from the grasp. Alexandra Fell lets her fall to the floor, resheathing the hypodermic and returning it to her pocket. A quick check outside first, no one is around. Don't want the nosy neighbors to see Dr. Amelia Rinaldi being kidnapped, now do we? Dr. Fell drags the body to the panel van she has backed into the driveway. Handcuffs and legirons are attached to two steel pipes that are bolted to the floor of the van. It is a long lasting sedative, but Fell wants to take no chances. Her captive properly secured, with a strip of duct tape over her mouth, Alexandra Fell slams the doors shut. She smiles brightly as she pulls herself into the driver's seat. The van eases from the neighborhood, rolling down the next street over as Dr. Antonio Rinaldi's black Jaguar pulls into the driveway.

*****

There is something desperately wrong in the air of the house as he walks through the door. He has made it two steps before he senses the danger. Not for him, but for Emily. He walks down the hall, entering the foyer. Under the notes of sandalwood and vanilla, those of his wife, he detects something else. His nostrils flare as he identifies it as fear. He pauses by a bookshelf before heading to the stairs, fingers trailing across the volumes. There, inside the fifth book, lay his Harpy. It is secured in his hand, blade open and glinting wickedly as he moves up the stairs. He pauses outside each door, listening, smelling before he moves on to the next. She is not here. In the bedroom, her cashmere wrap lays forgotten on the bed. He lifts it, feeling the soft material slide between his fingers. Downstairs, the chirp of her cell phone. He descends quickly, lifting the small Nokia to his ear as he hits the talk button. Breath greets him on the other end.

"Where is my wife?" the note of anger is not missed in his voice. Laughter, dry and humorless, meets his question, followed by a light Italian voice.

"She is well, for the moment, _Dotorre_. If you want to see her, get in your car and drive. I will call you again in two minutes."

His hand tightens on the Harpy. "I don't play games."

"No, but you will. Two minutes." the connection buzzes with static as she ends the conversation. Dr. Hannibal Lecter raises maroon eyes to the clock above the sink. The voice rings in his memory, once innocent and demure, now cold and cutthroat. His own voice surfaces next, along with the image of himself, standing in the Salon of Lilies in the Palazzo Vecchio.

"….Signore Pazzi, I must confess to you: I'm giving serious thought to eating your wife."

*****


	10. Unforgiven

This chapter is brought to you by The GD Café, Proudly Serving Free Range Rude. I've probably gone and violated any number of copyright laws by making my GD tee shirt, but I just _had_ to do it after seeing that we all wear an "Eat The Rude" tee in chameleon's play. Ah well, they can sue me, but they won't get much. A bow to the dear Cemetery Mink, who has drawn me in with her wonderful tales. Thank you for your inspiration, dear one. And for Steel, the butler _did_ do it. And for dear Kurt, you're right about those meddling kids. LOL I'll stop now, before I give away everything in the author's notes. Okey dokey, here we go.

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The Jaguar is sleek as it takes the hills of San Francisco. The driver barely lifts his foot from the accelerator as he eases the powerful car around a corner. He wears a hands free mike and earphone, attached to the cell phone that lays on the passenger seat. A woman's voice issues through the earphone, giving him his directions. He winces internally at the fact that it is his wife's cell phone, and his wife has been kidnapped. Sweet, sweet Emily. He would kill Alexandra Fell if any harm came to his dear wife.

"Stop here." The command is sudden and abrupt as he slams the brake son, laying a trail of rubber behind him. He cautiously puts the gearshift in reverse and pulls in front of the dark and boarded building. His breathing and pulse are calm and steady as he emerges from the car. The Harpy is tucked in the left front pocket of his trousers, easy access as he carries his wife's Nokia in his right. He stands on the sidewalk in front of the derelict building, awaiting his next instructions.

"The side entrance, down the left alley." the voice purred in his ear. Dr. Fell was enjoying this immensely. "open it, and come inside, _Dottore_." He notes for the first time the surveillance cameras that dot the buildings facade. _If you do anything to hurt my wife,_ the thought rose unbidden in his mind, so unlike him. The threat would be idle, for Fell had the upper hand right now. His hand rests on the steel doorknob, twisting it, and for those few moments, he is left unable to secure the Harpy lest something happen. As Fate would have it, something did happen. As he takes the first step into the dark interior a hand drops from nowhere. He feels the movement moments before the ether soaked cloth is brought over his face. The Nokia drops from his hand and he tries to go for the Harpy as he struggles. The grip is strong and he quickly falls to the floor as the ether takes its desired effect. It is surprising to see him fall, for one has watched this same man lift bodies pound for pound the size of his own. Dr. Alexandra Fell appears above him, examining the limp form.

"Welcome, Dr. Lecter." she smiles in the dark as she produces the tan half mask. "Will you join me for dinner?"

*****


	11. Dire Circumstances

The air is cold and it clings to her skin, causing her to shiver in the damp darkness. As her senses report back to her she begins to feel panic growing in her stomach. Her fingers skim the stainless steel tabletop she lies on, drawing back at the temperature. The room is dark, she can't see anything at the moment, but she can move. Her hands are free and she is not bound to the table. Dumb move, she mentally informs Dr. Fell. Obviously, the drug wasn't supposed to wear off so quickly. She manages a sitting position, ignoring the pain that throbs in her temples. Bringing her legs over the edge she prepares to drop from the table. She lands with a yelp of pain as she finds out that feeling in her legs is not the same as those legs being able to support her. She is sitting crumpled on the floor as the lights come up suddenly.

Dr. Alexandra Fell stands in the doorway, wagging a manicured finger at her loose captive. She steps to her, watching with barely hidden amusement as Emily tries to crawl away. She catches the woman's arm and hauls her roughly to her feet. 

"Where do you think you're going? Trying to ruin all my fun?" she sighs and looks at the spot of blood on Emily's arm. She pokes at it, causing her captive to wince. "And now you've gone and torn out the IV as well. Tut, tut." she slaps Emily across the face, earning a growl from the second captive in the corner. She grins past Emily's shoulders meeting the burning eyes above the tan mask.

"Don't approve of that do you?" she laughs and slaps Emily again. Emily is prepared and lets her head go with the blow, easing it slightly. Fell is smiling as Emily manages to bring her free hand up, balled into a fist, connecting solidly with the side of her captors head. In response she is slammed back against the table and slapped again. She can hear his words in her head, and see the envision the smile that is hidden behind the mask she can see he wears. 

_That's my girl._

Yeah. But unfortunately Fell doesn't agree. Emily's breath leaves in a rush as she is punched in the solar plexus, doubling over against her tormentor. Dr. Fell is grinning savagely as she grabs Emily to push her back on the table. Emily lays curled in the fetal position on the cold stainless steel.

"That," Fell informs her, leaning close to her face, "Was _rude_." she steps away from the table, taking a roll of duct tape that sits incongruously on the try of surgical instruments. She is humming as she pulls a long strip, tearing it off with her teeth. Slipping the roll on her wrist as she would a bangle, she reaches to roll Emily onto her back. She secures the right hand with the strip of tape. She keeps her eye on the free arm as she begins to tear the next strip. Emily is in no hurry to try and attack her again, not after that last punch. She tries to pull her left arm away as Fell reaches across the table. The grip on her wrist makes her wince as it is captured.

"Behave." she commands, securing the left wrist to the table. A few more strips on the wrists, making sure they are tight and that she will not be escaping. A longer piece this time, and Emily strains her head as she watches it be placed across her abdomen. The tape sticks to bare skin and it dawns on Emily as to why she's so cold. She has been stripped of her clothing, wearing only a pair of panties. Great, the thought is totally irrelevant as it surfaces in her brain, I'm naked. Even in theses most dire circumstances she cannot stifle a small giggle. Part of her finds it highly amusing that she just tried to beat up a woman while undressed, in front of her husband no less. The giggle is hushed and the thought flees after a look from Alexandra Fell.

"Something funny?" The rip of the tape as she measures out another strip, preparing to secure the ankles. "I hope not, because that will make the experience all the more painful for you." 

*****


	12. Patience Is A Virtue

Lost all patience with me, dear ones? Hmmmm. This should help a little. Thank you to all who have reviewed my tales. You are the ones who encourage me to continue. I'll hush now, dear ones, and get back to the tale. Okey dokey, here we go.

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Patience is a virtue. Given to all, but practiced by few.

*****

The lights come up sharply, blinding him and making him close his eyes against the glare. He has just heard a thump and a yelp as Emily slid from the table. He can see her now, crawling ineffectively across the floor as the woman she knows as Dr. Alexandra Fell steps towards her. Fell. Allegra Pazzi. She is no longer the fluff of a woman he had met in Florence. The death of one's lover and the need for revenge will do that to a person. Mourning and loss drive the mind to do things it would never consider while happy and in love. He watches as Emily is pulled to her feet and presented with a hard slap across her face. He growls low in his throat, warning Pazzi. Allegra grins at him, striking Emily once more, but his wife is prepared this time, she lets her head go with the blow. He sees the fist coming up before Pazzi does and smiles as Emily lands the punch. She smiles briefly before being slammed into the table and being punched in the solar plexus. HE strains against his bonds as he watches his wife double over. 

Allegra is quick as she secures Emily to the stainless steel table. She finishes with the ankles and returns the roll of duct tape to the rolling tray. Next, she ties a tourniquet back around Emily's forearm, preparing to reinsert the IV. He can smell the scent of fear that rolls from where his wife lays, bound and prone. The needle is inserted and taped carefully into place. She checks the saline drip and looks to where he sits.

"Trying to be the strong silent type, _Dotorre_?" she comes to stand in front of him. Dark eyes shining with glee. "Hard to see your loved one hurt before you? Brings up all those feelings of rage and anger doesn't it?" she laughs and looks into his eyes, and he looks into hers. She hides it well, but he can see her fear. He smiles, baring teeth behind the metal bars. 

"Tell me, Allegra, what are you afraid of?" his voice is hoarse from the ether, but still causes his wife to shiver on the table. She recognizes the tone, even of Pazzi does not.

"Not of you, _Dotorre_." she says, her voice flat, eyes revealing what she really thinks.

"Of course not, Allegra. You're afraid that you'll end up like your dear husband." he hangs the bait in front of her, maroon eyes burning into her soul. He can hear Emily's hair slide on the steel as she tries to look at them. She cannot, and he regrets that. The part of her that others would term monster would enjoy seeing Allegra Pazzi's fear. He looks for a moment on that, his wife raising the bloodied knuckle to her lips. Perhaps…

"_Diablo_." Allegra hisses close to his ear. He doesn't respond as she turns away. She returns to the table, begins to prep Emily for surgery. Not one that she is likely to survive if he cannot free himself. She is carefully injecting another sedative into the IV line, watching the dose carefully. Hannibal does not remove his eyes from her as his fingers, secured behind him by the handcuffs, search for the tag in the back of his trousers. There. Slipped in under the tag and secured with a thin piece of tape. A precaution he took before he left the house. A releases a homemade handcuff key, carefully excised from its hiding spot with delicate fingers. He remembers the last time he had use for such a key. Memphis. So long ago. He works the key into the hole, working it until he felt the catch release and the cuff open. The left cuff was more difficult, secured tightly against his wrist almost to the point of stopping blood flow. Careful. He cannot allow the cuffs to drop to the floor as they open. If that were to happen, Emily would surely die since he would be transferred tot he straightjacket and the hand truck. There. The second cuff sprung open and he caught it in his hand. The glint of a scalpel brought his attention to the table, and the smile on Allegra's face.

"Paying attention, Dr. Lecter? Good." her voice took on that of a school teacher as she looked back to Emily's prone body beneath her, green drapes surrounding the operating area. "Now, I can promise this won't hurt her a bit. Fortunately, I can't say the same for you." 

Patience is not a virtue the good doctor likes to use. He hates to be inconvenienced, and is, for all intents and purposes, very, very impatient. His senses are heightened as he watches the scalpel. It is painful to watch, knowing that he must wait for Allegra to become distracted from him and focus entirely on the procedure. The seconds pass slowly in his mind, he can hear the echoes of the grandfather clock in the palace. Heavy precise tick-tock, marking the passage of time. He brings his left hand into his lap when he is sure Allegra is not watching. She is overly assured of his being held captive, for she did not remove the Harpy from his left pocket. Slowly, don't make a sound, his hand slips into the pocket, drawing it out. Again, silence being the necessary factor, he flips it open. The handcuffs were traded in the pocket for the knife as his hand slips back around through the chair slats. 

He cuts the duct tape that secures him to the chair, carefully pulling it away in small increments. Next, the tape that bins his legs to those of the chair. Just enough so that he can move from the chair, not caring that duct tape remains on his clothing. Slowly, he rises, hoping that Allegra will stay focused on Emily for a few more seconds, all the time in the world for him to do what he needs to do.

*****


	13. Payment For One's Sins

My sincerest thanks to my dear friends Karma and Pepe, who gleefully helped me devise the murder for Allegra Pazzi. Well, Karma did, Pepe just provides the inspiration. Torture is so much fun, dear ones. I do hope you enjoyed the tale. Perhaps there will be another one. Perhaps… I do so want to play with Will Graham. Thank you for your support during this escapade. Enough prattle, on with the tale.

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The raised Harpy glints in the bright glare as he slips up behind Allegra Pazzi. It begins to come down in a swinging arc when Allegra suddenly turns, bringing the scalpel across the good doctor's midriff. Not a deep cut, mind you, just enough to cause him pain. She turns away from Emily, glaring at Hannibal Lecter and issuing a number of curses in her native Italian. He watches her, knowing not to strike until he can make her lose the scalpel. She retreats quickly to the other side of the room, looking in a satchel that sits near the door. She emerges triumphantly with a .45 in her hands, the scalpel having been discarded for her preferred form of weaponry. Quick, she brought the pistol up to bear on him, the front sights centered in the middle of his mass. Dr. Lecter is not a fool and he pauses, considering his options, holding a free hand to the cut she had given him.

"Heh. I still have the upper hand, _Dotorre_. Now, why don't you have a seat before I have to make this more painful for you?" she motioned with the pistol towards the chair, glaring at him. He was calm, and he could hear her breathing over that of his wife. She took a step towards him, a slight tremor working its way from her hands into the gun. _Closer please, closer_. Allegra Pazzi, a Pazzi of the Pazzi, did just that, confident now that she had the gun. Firearms did wonderful things for one's self esteem, he reflected. Another step, he had still not moved, and she was within arm's length. A chance, one that might get him shot, but if it could save his wife. The hand with the Harpy knife shoots out, slashing through the air. Allegra jolts backward, just within reach of the tip of the blade. She fires the gun and he drops to his knees, as she falls backwards to the floor, gun spinning across the concrete floor.

He wonders at the absence of pain, and realizes that he has not been hit. He levers himself up, firm grasp on his knife, shock flows through him when he sees Emily. The bullet has struck her, just above her naked right breast. Her breathing is slightly labored, but she remains unconscious, with blood seeping across her chest from both the gunshot wound and the incision Allegra had begun. His eyes glow redder still as he advances on Allegra, who is struggling up from the floor. Swiftly, he grabs her, pulling her to her feet and slamming her back against the stone wall. She can see the pinpricks of red that spin towards the pupils like pinwheels as he leans in close to her.

"That," he hisses, echoing her earlier comment to Emily, "Was _rude_." Still holding her tight against the wall, he reaches for the bottle of ether that sits on the sink. Working one handed, only glancing away from her briefly, he soaks a cloth in the ether and brings it back, pressing it against her face.

"You will pay for this, Allegra." he warns her as she struggles in his grasp. She goes limp and he holds her up, half carrying her to the chair that he had previously occupied. Working quickly, he secures her to the chair with the duct tape. Then, he turns to tend to his sweet, sweet Emily.

*****

Allegra awakens some time later, and tries to scream finding her mouth to be sealed with grey duct tape. Dr. Hannibal Lecter stands over his wife who lays on the morgue table, finishing the last careful stitches of her wounds. He does not glance in her direction as he carefully removes the latex gloves and disposes of them in the trash can by the sink. Coming back across the room, he pauses to check on his wife again, then, satisfied, turns to face her. She struggles against her bonds as she is scrutinized by those red, red eyes. Fear trickles into her stomach the way it trickles from the gash on her abdomen, slow and deliberate.

_So this is how my husband felt_. The thought wormed its way into her brain and forced a tear from her eye. Hannibal cocked his head to one side, drilling an auger of curiosity into her.

"Tears, dear Allegra?" he asks, coming closer to the chair, standing directly in front of her. She grunts under the duct tape, glaring at him. "Do you wish to say something to me? I know your husband did when he was about to die." he hunkers down, now at eye level with her. "He offered me money to let him go, is that what you will offer me, Alle-gra?" he draws the name out, a slight smile turning up the corners of his lips.

"Pity. I have no use for your money. See, your husband sold me to Mason Verger. You, however, tried to take what is most precious from me. Not a wise move." He rises to his feet again, walking over to the table on which the machines rest. He fingers the long cord of the heart monitor, then yanks it from the outlet. She watches, fear growing in her by leaps and bounds. He begins to fashion the cord into a hangman's noose, with the traditional thirteen coils. She rocks in the chair, desperately trying to find some way to loose herself. He looks up at her from his work, shaking his head.

"There is no escape for you, Allegra. One has to pay for their sins." he completes the noose and carries it and the heart monitor it is still attached to over to the table behind her. She twists her head, following every move he makes. He carefully takes the china and silverware from the table, making a neat stack of it on the ground. Then, he moves the table away from the wall. The heart monitor is placed on the floor for a moment as he measures the distance with the cord from her to where it sits. The table is moved a few inches closer to the chair, and the heart monitor placed atop it. She feels the cold rubber of the noose being lowered around her neck. He comes once again to stand in front of her, she can no longer glare at him, as her eyes begin to tear. He adjusts the noose and her blouse, shaking his head at the blood stain that is seeping across the crisp white color. 

"I gave your husband the choice of bowels in or bowels out when I threw him off the balcony." his voice is as calm and dry as if he were making conversation about the weather. "Unfortunately, it wouldn't be as much fun here." she whimpers, blinking away the tears. "Its too late for apologies, _Signora_ Pazzi. Too late to beg for forgiveness, too." A smile plays across his features as he leans close to her, breath brushing gently across her ear. "Do you know what I told him before I attacked him? Hmmmm? No? I didn't think so. I told him that I was giving serious thought _to eating his wife_." He steps back to look into her eyes, the fear is immense now, and he takes a sip of it. Exquisite, much like that of Senator Martin. He clasps his hands behind his back as he walks away to once again check on Emily. He comes back, and looks at her one last time. 

"This will be a slow death for you, Allegra." he steps out of her field of vision but she can hear the scuffing of his soles on the floor. "_Arrivederci, Signora Pazzi_." He pushes the heart monitor off the table, the cord is pulled taut, snapping Allegra's head back. It does not break the neck, but insures a slow strangulation as the heart monitor dangles a few inches from the floor. He has turned away, and gently lifts Emily in his arms, carrying her out the door and up into the very early San Francisco morning.

*****


End file.
